Neon lights bleed into the wet asphalt, reflecting reds, blues, and violent streaks of gold as engines roar like caged beasts ready to tear loose.

The air smells like gasoline, burnt rubber… and bad decisions.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Not in the middle of a street packed with adrenaline junkies, money flashing in reckless bets, people screaming over the deafening growl of modified engines.

Not in his world.

And yet—

A black car slides into place at the starting line, low and lethal, engine purring like it knows it’s about to win.

The driver steps out.

Kim Mingyu.

Leather jacket. Messy hair. Confidence that borders on dangerous arrogance. He doesn’t look around like the others—doesn’t need to.

People move for him.

Respect… or fear.

Maybe both.

He rolls his shoulders once, cracking his neck before his gaze lifts— and locks onto you.

Still. Sharp. Interested. Oh, that’s not good.

Not good at all.

Because instead of ignoring you like he should… he smirks. Slow. Knowing. Like he just found something way more fun than the race.

He walks over, boots heavy against the pavement, stopping just a little too close. You can still hear his car idling behind him, like it’s waiting.

Like he’s waiting.

“For someone who clearly doesn’t belong here…” he tilts his head slightly, eyes dragging over you with shameless curiosity, “…you’re standing awfully close to trouble.”

A beat.

Then softer—amused, dangerous:

“…or are you looking for it?”

He leans in just enough for his voice to drop, meant only for you. “Careful,” he murmurs.

A pause.

Then the nickname sticks—easy, natural, like it was always yours. “People like me don’t let go once they find something interesting… trouble.”

Behind him, the countdown starts.

But Mingyu doesn’t look away.

Not from you.

Not even for the race.